


Tattooed

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Multi, Near Death Experiences, Secrets, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 21:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14433990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: This one-shot fiction is a tale about a tantalizing tattoo. It’s a mystery story about whether a tattoo really exists. If it does, then who has it, what is it, and, most importantly, where is it?





	Tattooed

Of course, it was all after the fact—exactly twenty-four hours later, to be exact, when Peter Burke, Diana Berrigan, and Clinton Jones stood watching close-circuit footage of an earlier daring heist that had been in progress. An agile, slim figure had used a zipline extended between two 20-story structures to land on the penthouse roof of an exclusive co-op on the Upper West Side of New York City.

“Wow!” Jones extolled in admiration. “That dude is like a performer from the Cirque de Soleil.”

“That ‘dude’ is Neal Friggin’ Caffrey,” Peter said in disgust.

Barely twenty minutes later, more footage confirmed Peter’s heated accusation as the trio watched a well-dressed young man walk boldly out of the glass entrance of the high-rise apartment building with an art tube hanging from his shoulder. He gave the doorman a mega-watt smile and then disappeared into the foot-traffic along the sidewalk.

“A very rare and valuable Matisse was in that art tube,” Peter explained. “Caffrey carefully cut it out of the frame, and then, slam, bam, brazenly swanned out the front door displaying his dimples and his perfect teeth. The owner of the penthouse is away in Europe, so the theft wasn’t discovered until this morning when the cleaning lady showed up and found just an empty frame on the wall when she went to dust. So, like always, we’re two steps behind and he’s long gone by now.”

“Well, it didn’t seem as if he even tried to avoid detection,” Diana said thoughtfully. “Caffrey’s usually very clever and meticulous, so he had to have known about the street cams.”

“Of course, he did,” Peter agreed. “He just wanted to make sure that we knew it was him. He’s showing off and rubbing our noses in it. Well, one day that guy’s ass is going to be mine, and then we’ll see who’s laughing!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Now, we all know the story. Down the road, Peter did outfox and corner Neal, but the FBI agent didn’t really find himself laughing about his triumph. Somehow, he felt that the ruse was less than elegant and not a worthy conclusion to their convoluted chess game. Sure, Peter had achieved vindication, but the victory wasn’t as sweet as he thought it would be. The capture just highlighted the fact that although Caffrey was an ingenious thief and con man, it was quite evident that he was also a heartsick young kid who risked his freedom for a girl. Down the road, that scenario played out a second time. How dumb was that? So, Peter decided that maybe he should step in and save the enamored fool from himself. The brilliant Neal Caffrey had to be somewhere inside this obsessed and pining boy’s head.

Neal was a challenge, even tethered on a monitoring device. Peter knew that this whole concept of restraint was a joke. Neal could disappear in a heartbeat if he chose to do so—and most likely he would when he felt the time was right. Peter’s most important job was not to catch him when he strayed, but rather to keep him from _wanting_ to stray. That was a tedious and challenging task, and it probably took Peter as long as it took primitive cavemen to come up with the invention of the wheel. Nonetheless, when Peter set a goal for himself, he usually achieved it. It took years, and the journey was far from a bed of roses, but, in the end, Neal stayed, and Peter now trusted his CI with his life. An adversary had somehow become a friend.

Peter and Neal made an excellent team, a yin to the other’s yang. Even though they usually approached things from different perspectives, they always met in the middle and were successful. The FBI “win” statistics bore witness to that phenomenon. Neal managed to keep Peter on his toes, and the older man relished their inspired interactions as they perused crime scenes and the aftermaths of the sometimes-fatal mayhem. Today was one of those days. The two were looking at colorful morgue photographs of an assailant who was hit in the crossfire when the FBI raided an arms smuggler’s lair.

“We don’t have an ID on this unlucky fellow yet,” Peter explained to Neal, “but the tattoos may help us narrow down his identity.”

“That’s a lot of ink,” Neal said as he studied the photos. “He has sleeves down both arms, and his neck and chest were vast blank canvases for the skin artist.  I’d venture a guess that his back has more of the same.”

“And you’d be right,” Peter agreed. “Since his prints aren’t in the system, nor his DNA, and there’s no driver’s license or passport that has been issued with his picture, I’ve got Jones and Diana working another angle. They have photos of the tats and are visiting some local shops to see if anyone recognizes the work. This was intricate stuff, and it probably was done over time, so somebody may remember something.”

It was later at lunch when Peter brought up the subject again in a direct kind of way. “You have any tattoos, Neal, hidden under that classic spiffy suit?”

“That’s really none of your business, Partner,” Neal laughed. “Some things should remain a mystery.”

“Is that a fact?” Peter challenged smugly. “I could just come to your loft one morning and barge in on you while you’re in the shower. As your handler, I have every right to invade your personal space and take a look for myself.”

“You’d really do that just to satisfy your curiosity?” Neal asked skeptically. “Shame on you, Peter! El would probably be appalled.”

“Maybe she would want to know, too,” Peter said mysteriously while Neal snorted at the absurdity of it all.

When Peter was like a dog with a bone and kept staring at Neal with raised eyebrows, Neal relented.

“No, Mr. Inquisitive, I do not have any tattoos. When you’re operating outside of the law, you certainly don’t want your marks to remember seeing any distinguishing features. Happy now?”

“Huh,” was all that Peter said.

“What?” Neal challenged.

“Well, I guess I kind of pictured things a bit differently because you were so full of yourself back then. I wouldn’t have been surprised if maybe you flaunted your successes like the old Wild West desperados who put notches on their gun belts.”

Neal got into the spirit of this ridiculous game. “Now, face facts, Peter. That would have entailed whole long columns of tick marks that would have taken up the space on both of my arms.”

This time it was Peter who snorted. “The _fact_ is, Buddy, you certainly were proud of your work during your heyday and arrogant enough to display your victories for the world to see. And then there’s the _fact_ that you spent almost four years in prison,” Peter continued his argument. “A lot of cons decide to get themselves inked in the slammer.”

Neal looked horrified. “Like I’d ever consider doing something stupid like that and risk getting hepatitis or worse from dirty needles!”

Then Neal narrowed his eyes at his handler. “Okay, now I have a question for you, Mister Prying Peter Burke. Do you have any tattoos?

Peter just smiled and called for the check.

~~~~~~~~~~

Okay, now the game was on! Neal didn’t like to be stymied, and he was determined to get to the bottom of things. He and Peter had once been in the ring together during a rigged boxing match to get the goods on a Wall Street insider trader. There had been no obvious ink displayed above Peter’s silky trunks, or on his upper arms, or on his legs. If he did have a tattoo, that meant it was somewhere in the middle, and Neal certainly wasn’t going there. He did the next best thing—he went to Elizabeth.

There was no subtle or tactful way to slide into the subject, so Neal just came right out and asked her, point blank, when they met for brunch one Saturday.

“Peter didn’t give you an answer when you asked?” she remarked innocently.

“No, he didn’t,” Neal claimed irritably. “For some reason, the man who hates secrets is suddenly keeping his own.”

“Well, as Peter’s wife, I certainly couldn’t betray a confidence,” Elizabeth claimed loyally.

“So, he does have one!” Neal theorized. “Where and what? C’mon, Elizabeth, just tell me. I won’t let on that you’re the source, I promise.”

“I’m sorry, Neal,” El said between giggles, “but you’re on your own with this one.”

Neal finally decided that he really didn’t need to know, and he wasn’t going to agonize about it. It was just a ridiculous, stupid obsession, and he was so over it. For all he cared, his handler could have the FBI shield tattooed on one of his ass cheeks, or even a picture of Tweety Bird wearing a badge. The intriguing case of the tacit tat was now closed and forgotten!

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal had almost reached the finish line because his parole was officially ending in just six months. Peter had been not so subtly nagging to know his CI’s plans for the future. Neal didn’t tell him what they were because the answer was very simple—Neal didn’t know. Of course, the world would then be his oyster and he could visit some of his favorite cities in Europe once again without having to look over his shoulder. Undoubtedly, he wouldn’t be on his own because Mozzie would be right by his side champing at the bit to jump-start their infamous career. It was tempting because there was really nothing anchoring him to New York. Neal actually laughed out loud when Peter urged him to apply for a position with the Bureau as a paid consultant rather than as slave labor.

“Peter,” Neal scoffed, “I’ve been there, done that, and gotten the t-shirt. I’m finished with it all.”

Peter couldn’t help but wonder if he was included in that statement. Neal might be done with the official Bureau, but was he done with Peter as well? That was a troubling thought for the older man who had become very fond of his charge. Hell, if Peter were being honest, he would admit that he had been fond of Neal from the get-go even though he was a whirlwind of energy with sometimes questionable motives. If Neal left New York, he would be leaving a big hole in Peter’s life. El was more philosophical about the possibility when he expressed his fears.

“Hon, Neal deserves to be happy. These last almost four years have been an emotional roller coaster ride for him. He’s older now and would probably welcome a peaceful life away from everyone’s prying eyes, including yours. Maybe New York is not the best place for him to be because of all the bad memories.”

“But there were good memories, too, El,” Peter argued.

“Well, Sweetie, when the chips are down, it’s really Neal’s decision to make. But just remember, nothing is ever etched in stone. Life is fluid and always changing, and decisions can be revisited and reversed. Now, please, let Neal make his own choices without any interference on your end.”

~~~~~~~~~~

As the saying goes—“It ain’t over till it’s over.” One month later, Peter and Neal were working a hot case involving a suspected embezzler at The Mercantile Credit Union in Midtown. They had diligently uncovered hard evidence of an accountant’s sticky fingers, and Charlie Pendleton was going down for the count. Somehow, the guilty CPA seemed to have a sixth sense when the FBI agent and his CI entered the building with Jones and Diana in tow. He immediately dashed from his office towards the stairwell at the end of the hall. Neal and Peter were hot on his heels. However, they were not close enough to ascertain if he had used a fire door to exit onto one of the remaining five floors above. The team split up, each member taking a level to search for the panicked fugitive. Jones and Diana took the lower ones, while Neal and Peter hurried upward.

Peter had just finished searching the fourth floor. He knew that Neal had forged ahead to the fifth, but he saw nothing of either the accountant or Neal when he stared at the puzzled faces of the worker bees seated in their cubicles. All denied that anyone had just entered other than Peter.

One brave soul ventured a guess. “The only place left that you can access from the fire stairs is the roof.”

Peter stepped out onto the flat tarred expanse that emanated shimmers of heat from the scorching noonday sun. He squinted his eyes from the glare, and was able to make out the rather corpulent, sweating accountant several feet away. The desperate man had Neal positioned in front of him. One thick arm was around the CI’s neck, and Neal’s right arm had been wrenched painfully behind his back. Peter drew his weapon and used his commanding FBI voice to address the tenuous situation as he moved ahead step by careful step.

“Let that man go, Pendleton! It’s all over now and there’s no way out for you.”

Pendleton shook his head and backed up a bit dragging Neal with him.

“It can’t end this way—it just can’t,” the agonized man wailed. “I’ll be ruined and a shunned pariah. I’ll never be able to work again. It just isn’t fair and my life is over,” he whined.

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you began helping yourself to other people’s money,” Peter said harshly.

“No, no! You don’t understand,” Pendleton was almost sobbing now. “I only took a small amount from those who could afford to lose a bit. I have so little and they have so much. Most never even missed it. I’m telling you, it just isn’t fair!”

During this weird explanation of a self-serving motive, Pendleton was moving backwards, step by step, and coming perilously close to the roof’s edge. There was no balustrade around the periphery—not a railing nor handhold anywhere in sight. Peter stopped dead in his tracks and holstered his gun while holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Okay, Charlie,” he said soothingly, “I can see your point. Let my partner go and then we can all go back inside where it’s cool and talk about it.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, Mr. Federal Agent. I’m not stupid, you know, so don’t patronize me. It’s much too late for talking. You just want to make this arrest easy for yourself,” the overweight man stated emphatically. “Well, I’m not going to accommodate you! The end of my story is going to be abrupt and messy and it will be on your head to explain it all when it’s over.”

With that dire statement barely out of his mouth, the desperate man dragged one foot backward into nothingness and his balance teetered. Peter saw Neal’s eyes suddenly widen in panic as Pendleton clawed at his captive for support. The two seesawed dangerously back and forth like circus performers on the high wire. Peter surged forward as the heavier man’s weight caused him to become a victim of gravity and he began to topple over the precipice. Thankfully, his grip on Neal’s throat and arm had loosened, but the young CI was precariously off-balance and in danger of slipping over the edge as well.

Peter immediately dove as if he were trying to steal home base. He had his arms extended and his hands groping for any part of Neal that he could snag. All that he could manage was the lower third of Neal’s skinny tie. He probably would have snapped his partner’s neck if Neal’s fingers weren’t already scrabbling to grasp the roof’s edge, and that was enough to offset some of his weight. While Neal dangled insecurely, they heard a scream that eerily came to an abrupt halt. Both men immediately realized what that silence meant. Now it was imperative that they work to ensure that Neal didn’t meet the same fate.

It took quite a bit of effort on both their parts to lever Neal back onto terra firma. He immediately collapsed onto his back and starting sucking in great gulps of air. He didn’t seem to care that the sun was blinding him or that the tar on the roof was sticking to the back of his vintage suit. All he really cared about was breathing and being alive. Apparently, Peter was of the same mind. He clutched Neal in his arms and held him close before instinctively bringing his lips down on his partner’s. Neal was startled and stiffened at first from this unexpected fervent display of affection. But when Peter’s tongue invaded his mouth, he surrendered and gave as good as he got. Surprisingly, it felt really good—something akin to an out-of-body experience.

When it came to an end, Neal squinted up at Peter. “Wow, Buddy, what was that all about?”

“Just trying to show you what you’d be missing if you decided to leave town in a few months,” Peter said softly. “No pressure, of course. I’m just stating a fact.”

“I never realized—I…. well, I just never realized,” the dumbfounded young man stammered lamely.

“And here I thought that good con artists were supposed to be uncannily perceptive,” Peter smiled. “I think you may be losing your touch, Neal.”

Before there was anymore conversation on the subject, Jones and Diana came barreling through the door with guns drawn. They were a little late to the party.

“You guys okay?” Dina asked in a rush as her eyes darted across the rooftop for any sign of danger.

“We’re good,” Peter said firmly, very glad that he didn’t have to use the excuse that he had been giving Neal mouth-to-mouth resuscitation a few minutes before they arrived.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal was now safely back home in his loft and toasting his survival with a very expensive bottle of Bordeaux. When he heard a knock on his door, he assumed that Mozzie, with his uncanny intuition when it came to wine, had arrived to share in the rich tannins and their luxurious afterglow. However, it wasn’t one visitor—it was two. Peter and Elizabeth now stood in the doorway.

“How are you holding up, Neal?” Elizabeth asked solicitously. “Peter said it was a really close call today.”

“I’m fine,” Neal claimed. “Just a bit of whiplash, but that’s definitely preferable to becoming road pizza.”

Elizabeth made a face, and Neal immediately apologized. “Sorry about the analogy, Elizabeth. That was a very gross thing to say.” 

“Well, seeing your life pass before your eyes couldn’t have been very pleasant, so you’re entitled,” El smiled. “Peter and I are just glad that you’re still around. I guess that begs the question—are you going to continue to be around for us, Neal?”

“Why do I feel as if you two are ganging up on me,” Neal asked as he cocked his head and studied the beautiful woman in front of him. He didn’t trust himself to look in Peter’s direction.

Elizabeth sighed. “I kept giving Peter the lecture about not trying to influence you one way or the other. However, in the heat of the moment, it all came out anyway. I suppose I should give him a pass for that lapse. Nevertheless, now that it is finally all out in the open, what do you say? Are we enough to make you want to stay?”

“In what way?” Neal asked warily.

“In every way that matters,” El clarified.

Neal finally looked at Peter. “I once told you that you had an amazing wife, Buddy. You don’t know how lucky you are and how happy that makes me!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal firmly locked the door to his loft and even tied a sock on the outer doorknob for good measure. Hopefully, Mozzie would get the message that Neal was busy if he came to call. The suddenly nervous young man tried to make the scene sultry by dimming the lights. Scented votive candles around the room were now the only illumination within the space, their flames causing flickering shadows to dance upon the walls. After a bit of contemplation, he decided that low romantic music would be overdoing it.

Neal really didn’t have to try so hard to set the scene because the night that unfolded would have been magical in the most garish light. As things progressed, there was no need for props, just as there was no embarrassing fumbling. It was like the perfect waltz, and the young man found himself fulfilled in so many ways. He felt wanted and loved—something that he hadn’t experienced in a very long time. It was like he was a man dying of thirst in the desert who had finally stumbled upon a life-saving oasis.

~~~~~~~~~~

The rays of the morning sun slanted across the big tiger oak bed to highlight three people comfortably intertwined. Peter was the first to struggle from the tangle of arms and legs to pad across the floor towards the bathroom. Neal smiled fondly as he watched Peter’s retreating back, but then the smile turned into a huge grin.

“You did it! You really did it!” he chortled. “You are one sly old dog, Peter Burke.”

The FBI agent who wasn’t an agent but rather a contented lover this fine morning turned around in confusion. He saw El snickering uncontrollably and wondered why he was the butt of some joke between his wife and his partner. Then it suddenly hit him, and he realized that he was, indeed, the quintessential “butt” of the joke.

Neal couldn’t get his breath between deep roars of laughter. All he could do was point to Peter’s ass. Of course, Peter’s left buttock was the culprit because tattooed within a small blue heart were the stylized letters, “ _P+N+E_.”

“When did you have that done?” Neal wanted to know when he could finally speak.

At first, Peter looked sheepish. “Go on, Hon, tell him,” Elizabeth urged.

“I wouldn’t want him to get a swelled head,” Peter objected.

“I think it’s probably too late for that,” Neal smirked. “C’mon, tell me.”

“Okay, I got it about six months into our partnership. Happy now?”

Neal looked contemplative. “Huh. Imagine that. Were you that sure of yourself, Peter?”

“You know me, Neal. It may take some time, but I always get my man,” Peter deadpanned. “However, I guess I shouldn’t assume anything when it comes to you, Pal. Tell me—am I going to have to add a little jagged line bisecting it because you’ll be leaving us?”

“Aw, Peter, that would be a cliché,” Neal smiled, “and I really don’t think we’re a cliché.”

Peter laughed out loud. “We may be a lot of things, Neal, but nobody could ever accuse us of being a cliché!”


End file.
